My suitcase held only dreams when I first landed in Shenzhen. Little did I know about navigating racial dynamics there; it became clear almost immediately. The experience mirrored walking into a living showcase, positioned as both exhibit and participant in the cultural observation. The first few days were a blur of smiles, giggles, and flashbulbs popping like fireworks in a quiet alley. I’d step out of a taxi and suddenly, a dozen phone cameras would rise like a synchronized school of fish. “Can I take a photo?” someone would ask, eyes wide with a mix of awe and mild disbelief, as if I were a character from a sci-fi film that had somehow slipped through the cracks of reality. It was entertaining, sure—like being a celebrity with no fame, only fleeting fascination. But let’s be real: no one ever asked for my autograph, just my skin tone, hair texture, and an explanation for why I didn’t “look like the people on TV.”
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When the World Tries to Write Your Story Before You’ve Even Spoken
There’s this strange magic in being seen—really seen—when you’ve spent your whole life being scanned like a barcode at a grocery store. I remember standing at a train station, the kind with chipped tile and flickering lights, when a kid tugged his mom’s sleeve and said, “Mama, why is her skin *so* dark?”
Not “Wow, she’s so strong,” or “Look at that shade,” or even “Hey, she’s got a nice coat.” No. It was a question that landed like a dropped spoon on a linoleum floor—loud, sudden, and impossible to ignore.
The mother’s eyes flicked toward me, sharp as a knife in a quiet room. Not angry. Not even curious. Just… embarrassed. Like I was a typo in her mental script, a character who didn’t belong in her story. I’ve been called exotic, beautiful, “rare,” and “interesting”—all in the same breath as “you’re not like the others.” As if my existence is a performance, and I’m supposed to be grateful for the spotlight.
1. That moment didn’t just sting—it rewired something inside me. Not because I didn’t expect it, but because I’d been so used to it. Like a background hum you tune out until it stops, and then you realize how much noise you were ignoring all along.
2. I stopped thinking, “They’re just being honest.” I started thinking, “They’re not even asking. They’re assuming.” And that? That’s not honesty. That’s assumption wearing a velvet coat.
3. What’s wild is how often people assume they’re being kind when they’re just being curious. “You’re so strong!” they say, like my skin is a superpower. As if I’m not just tired, scared, or trying to figure out how to pay rent, like everyone else.
4. I used to smile. I’d say, “Thank you!” like I was supposed to be grateful for being seen as different. But one day, I looked in the mirror and asked myself: “Am I allowed to just be tired? Can I be sad without it being tied to my skin?”
5. Here’s the truth no one tells you: being seen is exhausting. Not because you’re special. But because you’re constantly being reduced to a single thread in a much bigger story—your story.
And when you finally catch your breath, you realize: the most radical thing you can do in this world isn’t to be loud or loud-adjacent. It’s to just… be. Not a narrative. Not a symbol. Not a curiosity. Just a person with a name, a favorite coffee order, and a dream that’s not about being “inspiring.”
So next time you feel that urge to comment on someone’s skin tone, ask yourself: “Am I seeing a person? Or am I reading a script I wrote before I even met them?”
There’s a strange irony in how people in China often treat Blackness as exotic, yet rarely understand the depth of Black identity. I’ve had strangers comment on my "unique" hair like it was a fashion accessory from another planet, while simultaneously asking, “Do you eat meat?” like I was some kind of culinary experiment. I remember this one time a guy asked me if I could jump high—something he probably thought because of my skin color. It was pretty funny but also kind of frustrating; like they've got you pinned to a stereotype and can't imagine anything else about your capabilities or, well, just yourself. According to a 2022 study by the *China Institute of International Studies*, over 70% of Chinese respondents viewed Black people through a lens of “cultural curiosity,” but only 15% could name a single Black person from history beyond sports figures. That kind of disconnect? It’s exhausting. It’s like being seen as both a mystery and a cliché at the same time.
Here is the rewritten text:
**Embracing Identity in a Foreign Land**
There's beauty in the chaos, and I've found it in the quiet corners of Guangzhou. Black expats have turned their isolation into art, resilience, and friendship.
1. We meet at underground jazz nights where we can let loose without judgment.
2. Over late-night bubble tea sessions, stories are shared that help break down barriers.
3. The laughter is contagious, and before long, our ribs hurt from laughing too hard.
A Ghanaian graphic designer once told me, “You don’t belong here, but you also can’t leave, because you’re becoming part of it.” It's true - I've started to see my Blackness not as a burden or performance but as a bridge that allows me to navigate China through an unspoken lens.
**Navigating Urban Life**
I've learned how to walk past stares without flinching. To speak my truth even when I'm the only Black face in a crowded room - it's about finding your own voice and using it.
My experience has been eye-opening, but there are still moments of uncertainty. How do you know where you belong? And what does that mean for someone who is constantly changing places?
In Guangzhou, I've found my place among fellow outcasts who have turned their isolation into something beautiful.
The beauty lies in embracing the unknown and finding community within it.
While walking through a crowded market on Saturday afternoon, listening to Mandarin vendors calling over customers while trying not to get caught up in local gossip is fascinating. To learn new customs of this foreign land where cultural differences are only seen when someone else is there doing them for you - that's something worthwhile.
I have to admit, I'm still perplexed by the cultural differences in China. Like a tourist asking me if I was "from Africa or the moon?" My response was priceless. You see, when you're living in a country where everything is so different from what's expected of an American like me, and everyone assumes you must be either Asian or African due to my ethnicity. I had no choice but to come up with some creative response—the one that left them utterly speechless was: “I'm from the Earth, but I guess I'm not *from* China, so I'm not sure where I belong.” It’s in moments like these that I realize I’m not just surviving in China—I’m shaping my own story. And sometimes, that story gets a little cinematic.
But what really got me started on this path of exploring identity and migration was the collaboration between Gemi Media. They bring together short films that explore these very topics through an innovative approach, blending raw emotion with cutting-edge tech. As someone who's always been passionate about storytelling in all its forms—be it writing, acting, or directing—I knew immediately what drew me to this project. What truly sets them apart is their dedication to creating a platform where everyone can share and see themselves reflected on screen. It’s empowering not only for the storytellers but also for those who are watching. And that's precisely why it inspired me to tell my truth in ways that go beyond words—using visual storytelling.
As we continue to navigate our ever-changing world, I think this is what will truly set us apart and make a lasting impact on society as a whole: being unapologetically ourselves, embracing the complexities of human identity. And sometimes, it's just about seeing that others are doing the same—taking courage in sharing those stories. Can we truly say we've seen ourselves reflected back at us when watching mainstream media today? Or is there still a void, an unbridgeable gap between our reality and the world presented to us by Hollywood?
The journey hasn’t been easy—no, it’s been messy, layered, and deeply human. But I’ve come to understand that my Blackness in China isn’t just about being an outsider; it’s about redefining what belonging looks like. It’s about finding joy in small rebellions—like walking into a restaurant and asking for a table, not a photo op. It’s about teaching my friends that “Black” isn’t a question, it’s a statement. And it’s about reminding myself, every single day, that my existence isn’t a spectacle. It’s a full, complex, unapologetic life. So if you’re wondering what it’s like being Black in China—well, it’s like being a character in a story that’s still being written, and I’m not just a supporting role. I’m the author, the lead, and occasionally, the punchline. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade this journey for anything. Because in the end, being Black in China isn’t about fitting in. It’s about standing out—on your own terms, with your own voice, your own rhythm. And that? That’s the most powerful kind of character-building there is.
